The Money
Michael Stein stepped out of his mother’s Audi A8, dressed in his school’s mandated jacket and tie, excited for the school day ahead of him. His mother was babbling something about making good grades or making good choices when Michael slammed the door shut and walked off in search of his friend John Kim. He found John, whose uniform was more unkempt than Michael’s, smoking a cigarette under the stairwell.
“Dude, put that out,” said Michael, looking around nervously.
John took a drag off his cigarette, blew the smoke in Michael’s face, and replied, “Relax, Mikey. We still have to wait for Connor.”
“You ladies talking about me?” said Connor Daniels as he walked up to join them.
“Can you tell him to put that out?” said Michael to Connor. John took another drag off his cigarette, blew the smoke in Michael's face, and stomped the cigarette out on the ground. Michael waved the smoke out of his face, ignored Connor's smirk that was begging for a reaction, and pulled a stack of papers out of his backpack. “I know you said 20, but I made 30 copies just in case.”
“That’s good thinking,” said Connor, taking one of the papers, and John took one, too. “I’ll have to work some magic trying to sell people on it who already did the work, but I don’t mind a challenge.”
“Alright,” said Michael. “Well, we'd better get to it. The bell is going to be ringing soon.”
“You need to relax,” said Connor.
“I told him the same thing,” said John, popping a piece of gum into his mouth.
The boys walked off, hunting down select classmates one by one. Connor did the talking, John collected the money, and Michael handed over a copy of the completed Algebra 2 homework assignment. Connor was even able to use his wiles to convince three more of their classmates that Michael’s answers were better than theirs, so they purchased copies too. While Connor was unsuccessfully trying to convince another of their classmates to purchase a copy of Michael's work, the bell rang, and the boys went off to attend their Algebra 2 class with Mr. Ford.
“Alright, everybody. You know the drill,” said Mr. Ford to his class, and they all pulled out their Algebra 2 homework paper while Mr. Ford went around the room collecting them. While the class worked on practice problems, Mr. Ford graded the papers at his desk, and he began to notice a pattern. Many of the papers had all the answers right, and he knew his class wasn’t that dedicated or that smart. Many of the papers worked out the problems in the exact same way, and he knew his class wasn’t that consistent either. But it was the handwriting on many of the papers that looked all too similar to the handwriting on many of the other papers that caused him to get up and say, “Okay, I see what’s going on here. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? All of you who cheated, which is most of the class, get a zero. I hope it was worth it.”
Groans from the class filled the room. Once the bell rang and the students flooded into the halls, all the students who had purchased Michael’s work earlier asked for their money back, so John passed out refunds.
“Why didn’t we just keep the money?” asked Michael.
“We have to think about repeat business,” replied John.
“Don’t worry,” said Connor. “I’ve got another idea.”
After a couple more classes, it was lunchtime, and Michael, John, and Connor sat at their usual table, eyeing Gordon Tyler’s backpack from afar, which sat on the floor next to a large box of assorted candy. Gordon just finished eating his sloppy joe, and Connor went over to talk to him.
“Gordon, my man,” said Connor, enthusiastically. “How’s it going, buddy?”
Still in the middle of wiping off his face from his messy sandwich, Gordon flinched and replied, “Hey, huh… Alright, I guess.”
“Have I ever shown you this card trick before?” said Connor, pulling a deck of cards out of his pocket. Michael and John saw their cue, got up from their table, and walked over to Gordon and Connor. Gordon stared at them suspiciously as they surrounded him, but when other students started becoming transfixed by Connor’s card trick, Gordon’s attention went back to that.
Michael was responsible for being the lookout, while John bent down under the table and dug through Gordon’s backpack. Everyone at the table was still focused on Connor’s card trick, but Michael wished John would hurry up. A girl named Emily Gardner, who was in Michael’s History class last year, looked over in his direction, so he gave John a swift kick. Just as swift as Michael’s kick, Emily ducked her head under the table.
“John and Michael are stealing the fundraiser money!” screamed Emily. John popped up from under the table, picked up someone’s sloppy joe, and threw it at Emily, smacking her right in the face and exploding saucy meat all over. Connor threw his cards up in the air, and when Michael noticed John and Connor were running away, he followed suit.
The trio stopped running by the side of the administration building, and Michael asked, “How much was in there?”
“I didn’t get the money,” replied John.
“What?” said Michael and Connor in chorus.
“There were so many goddamn pockets on that backpack it was impossible to find anything,” said John. He shoved Michael and said, “And you didn’t warn me that someone was looking.”
“Yes, I did,” said Michael, angrily. “I gave you a kick.”
“Yeah, when it was already too late,” said John. “And you didn’t have to kick me so goddamn hard.”
Connor got between Michael and John, and said, “Ladies, ladies. Don’t worry. I’ve got another idea. Michael, what time do your parents go to sleep?”
It was night, and Michael was lying in his bed, wide awake. With every rustling he heard throughout the house, a new bead of sweat formed on his brow. He shot up in his bed when he saw the hallway lights turn on. He heard his father say, “Hey, who’s down there?” Michael hopped out of bed and ran out of his room. “Michael, get back in your room,” said Michael’s father, holding a baseball bat, with Michael’s mother right behind him.
“But, dad…” said Michael, not sure what excuse to come up with.
“What is it?” said Michael’s father.
The backyard floodlights came on, and Michael’s mother screamed, “Ben, look!” Michael’s father sprinted down the stairs, and Michael followed him. Michael’s mother tried to stop him, but he wriggled out of her grasp and continued down the stairs. Michael followed his father into the backyard and saw him holding up the bat, ready to swing, while John and Connor stood against the fence, their hands up, and two sacks by their feet.
It didn’t take long for the police to arrive, and it didn’t take long after that for Connor to tell everyone, “Michael knew what we were doing. He was part of the plan.”
While one of the police officers was putting handcuffs on Michael, his teary-eyed mother asked, “Why, Michael? Why did you do it?”
The officer who had a hold of Michael seemed sympathetic to Michael’s mother's inquiry, so he held him there waiting for a response. Michael, unsure what to say, told his mother, timidly, “We just wanted the money.”
“What?” roared Michael’s father. “You get money every goddamn day. What did you need money for?”
Beyond embarrassment at this point, Michael looked to the floor and replied, “We didn’t need the money for anything. We just wanted it.” Michael's mother burst into tears and buried her face in her husband’s chest, Michael’s father shook his head and looked away from his son, and the police officer holding Michael turned him around and walked him outside.
Michael sat down in the back seat of the police cruiser, and the door was shut. It seemed so quiet in that moment, and he never felt so lonely in his life. He couldn’t help but cry, and he couldn’t get himself to stop when the officer got in the front seat, no matter how hard he tried.
“Hey, kid,” said the officer, sympathetically, from the front seat. Michael looked up and could see the officer’s eyes looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. “This isn’t the worst thing in the world. You’re going to be fine. Try to relax.” Michael gave one last snort and stopped crying. He kept looking forward and sat back in the seat, ready to accept whatever came next.